


breathe for me, baby

by literalmetaphor



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: CPR, M/M, Protective!Shane, i cannot believe i wrote RPF with my own two hands, i like how i just tagged it as CPR, its delightful, like this is not a manual on how to do CPR, ryan gets hurt, seek help elsewhere, shane freaks out, shane gives Ryan CPR, shane like really freaks out, shyan, skeptic believer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 17:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12893439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literalmetaphor/pseuds/literalmetaphor
Summary: Shane loves seeing Ryan freak out.But not like this.





	breathe for me, baby

**Author's Note:**

> okay, guys. i just... this was in my head, and i feel so BAD because I don't do RPS. i don't usually even /ship it/ because i respect real human beings. but I HAD TO. i just... i love them so much and, just... ugh. i have so much shame. but i absolutely loved writing this, so like... not enough shame. #worthit
> 
> anyway, i ship them for fun. i adore their friendship, and their girlfriends, but whatever. this was fun as fuck to write.
> 
> (my tumblr is absolutelybifurious, just fyi - fuckin drag me)

Shane sorta hates that Ryan’s getting braver.

He could never believe in this absolute bullshit, but Ryan’s fear made it fun. Riling him up. Calming him down. And it’s only natural that he’s getting less afraid. They’ve been to over a dozen _haunted_ places and nothing has happened except static, and occasionally, different-sounding static. Oh, and flashlights.

He’s pretty sure Ryan still believes in this shit, but his fear of it is disappearing. It’s only logical, and Ryan isn’t that obtuse, but Shane sorta misses the Ryan who frantically sought his holy water after a light turned on.

He side-eyes Ryan now, waiting for him to react to the creepy-ass bathroom in front of them. The one where a lady drowned her three kids and stabbed herself to death. Seriously, this shit might not be haunted, but it’s _sad_.

Ryan shifts his weight from foot to foot.

They’ve established the pattern. They stand in the creepiest room in the house, separately, for no reason other than to make this more fun for Shane. Because it’s the only way Ryan freaks out anymore, and even that’s losing its luster. He doesn’t have to throw out the suggestion to the tune of Ryan telling him to fuck himself before he reluctantly agrees.

They just do it.

“Do you need me to go first?” he finally asks.

Ryan rolls one of his shoulders, narrows his eyes as he stares at the cracked white of the bathroom. “Uhhh…” Okay, he’s freaking out. Shane has gone to enough haunted places with Ryan Bergara to know when he is one hundred percent freaking out, and Shane nearly fist pumps.

“It’s okay,” he says. “After all the sweet nothings they’ve whispered in your ear. You must be pretty traumatized. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Shut _up_ , you fucking asshole.” Ryan straightens, takes a hard breath so his chest inflates, and blinks about three thousand times in two seconds. Even in the dark, Shane can make out the cords of the muscles flexing beneath the skin on his arm. The sweat starting to shimmer there. “Whatever, I’ll go.”

“Are you gonna bring your little walkie talkie?” Shane asks.

Ryan clutches the spirit box tighter to him, and Shane knows it’s called the spirit box, obviously, but the indignant flash in Ryan’s eyes is so worth the lie. “It’s not a walkie talkie, god, you’re such an ass.” He scoffs. “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.” He takes another breath and steps forward.

“Wait, wait, should I run and get you a snorkel for when she tries to drown you?” Ryan just stares at him, mouth set, jaw too hard. “Safety first, Ryan.”

A sigh, and then, “Fuck you, Shane.”

Shane laughs and raises his eyebrows as Ryan turns to inspect the bathroom.

“Three minutes?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine.”

Shane clicks the door shut behind him and leans against the wall near the door. He smirks briefly at the camera before he turns to listen.

“Uh, if, if anyone is in here…” Ryan is saying, wobbling through the words like a baby learning to walk. “Feel free to, well, actually, you know, just don’t. Maybe just don’t.”

Shane sighs. “Is this reverse psychology? Because otherwise, this is an even bigger waste of time than I thought it was, which was a really big waste.”

Ryan hisses through the door. “I fucking hate you.”

“I know.”

Ryan takes a breath, so loud Shane hears it through the door like Ryan’s at his ear. “Okay, well…”

A thump rattles through the house, and Ryan squeaks on the other side of the door. Shane doesn’t bother fighting the laugh that rattles through him.

“What the hell was that?” Ryan asks before he even stops laughing, not remotely amused. “Did you do that?”

“No,” Shane says, “but it was probably just the building setting or something.”

“The building is forty years old, Shane, I think it’s probably set.”

Shane sighs dramatically and tilts his gaze to the low ceiling. He swears he can hear Ryan’s heart hammering through the wall. “We should get you a heart monitor and just run it through the whole episode—how scared is Ryan this week?”

Ryan hisses but doesn’t answer. “Okay,” and it’s his I’m-ignoring-you-and-talking-to-my-imaginary-friends voice. “I’m going to, uh, turn the spirit box on now. You can… use it to communicate with me, if you want. Or don’t. Either way is fine.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“Man, this room is freaking me out.”

“Shocking.”

The spirit box flares to life the next instance, and Ryan is drowned out by the annoying, incessant chatter of Shane’s least favorite gadget. He is seriously going to accidentally break it one day. Oops, oh no, Ryan, so sorry.

The static is routine for a bit. Or, as routine as static can be, because that’s the thing—it’s meant to jump around and be weird, it’s fucking static. But yeah, okay, it’s ghosts. Shane glances at the stopwatch he started. Only a minute-thirty left. Man, if the thump is all he gets, he’s going to be pissed.

Ryan says something he can’t quite make out under the too-loud wailing of the box, and then a squeal cuts through the door and actually draws his head towards it. It squeals, not unlike a broken record, but it doesn’t stop. Not for several seconds.

Shane shoots a glance at TJ behind the camera, who shoots him one right back. He can only imagine the look on Ryan’s face right now. He kinda wants to open the door just to see it.

The spirit box silences itself, and the static doesn’t pick back up. “Did it die?” Shane asks when Ryan says nothing.

“I don’t… know.” Ryan’s voice is riddled with holes, nearly as high-pitched as the squeal that’d been coming out of the spirit box. Oh, this is rich. “I, uh…”

“You alright?” Shane asks because Ryan sounds like he’s going to throw up.

“Not really.”

Shane glances at the clock and raises his eyebrows. “You’ve still got a little under a minute left, but you can wimp out early if you want.”

Ryan doesn’t answer, instead, the spirit box hits the floor. Shane can hear some of its pieces splinter on the broken linoleum. He lifts off the wall and watches the door. Okay, scared Ryan is one thing—this might actually lead to some kind of heart attack.

“Ryan?” he asks.

Nothing.

O-kay. If Ryan has decided now is the time to get him back for all the bullshit, well played, because he can feel his heart spiking in his chest. “C’mon,” he says. “It’s been three minutes.”

It hasn’t. There’s still thirty-two seconds left.

Ryan still doesn’t answer, and Shane is kind of getting pissed. He shouldn’t be because it means whatever game Ryan is playing is working, but he is. He rolls his eyes and grabs the door. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

He tries to open the door, but the knob won’t turn. Won’t even budge. His pulse sucks all the moisture from his throat until he feels like he’s breathing over sandpaper. “Ryan, Jesus Christ…” He tugs on the door again, but it doesn’t budge.

He shoots a glance back to TJ but he just shakes his head. Un-fucking-helpful.

“Ryan, seriously…” He yanks on the door, but it won’t _move_ , and yeah, okay, now he’s losing it. He can physically feel it, whatever the fuck _it_ is, breaking away from him in little bits. “Ryan!”

“Is he just holding it?” TJ asks.

“It doesn’t fucking feel like it,” Shane says back.

Ryan loves this shit too much to play this up, to push this far, for the views. He wouldn’t do this. Even if he didn’t take it way too seriously, he’d freak himself out before… Shane swallows and slams his shoulder into the door. “Ryan, c’mon, man, answer me.”

Nothing.

How could he be saying absolutely nothing?

Panic latches onto Shane’s chest and rattles his pulse until he thinks his skeleton is going to fall apart on the floor. “Fuck—fuck! I can’t get the goddamn door open.”

TJ’s lowered the camera, but he’s not moving to help, and Shane really wants to just… he steps back, takes a breath. “I’m gonna bust it open.”

“What?” TJ asks. “The tour people will kill us.”

“Do I look like—Ryan, I swear to god, I’m going to kick this goddamn door open so if you don’t want your stupid show known for property damage, open the door.”

It doesn’t open. Shane knows it’s not going to open, and the horror that’s gripped him is taking him apart in pieces. Fuck this house. Fuck this show. He needs to open this door and see Ryan grinning on the other side of it. He needs to see Ryan.

He uses all six foot four of him to ram his heel into the bottom of the door. It shudders, but doesn’t move. TJ’s muttering behind him, but he hasn’t made any move to stop him. Shane kicks again, and the door shudders harder.

God, his mind is playing a thousand horrible scenes right now. He’s seen way too many movies, and all of them are making him want to vomit. His foot connects with the door again, and this time it gives, buckles until the hinges snap and it collapses.

Shane steps, or jumps, or does something inhuman to move through the space before he sees Ryan on the floor. He kneels, mind whirring with more noise than twelve spirit boxes. He grabs Ryan’s shoulders, grabs his head to pull it up. “Jesus Christ, he’s freezing.”

“Is he okay?” TJ asks. “Did he just pass out?”

He frantically presses over the curves and angles of Ryan’s neck, searching, searching for the warm _thump-thump_ beneath the skin. Nothing. Fuck, fuck maybe he just can’t find it. He leans forward, pressing an ear near Ryan’s lips, waits for breath to break them.

“Is he okay?” TJ repeats.

Shane doesn’t respond because he doesn’t have any idea what’s going to come out of his mouth if he opens it. He’s got one hand in Ryan’s hair, cradling his head, and he thinks, a little grimly, it kind of does remind him of a movie.

“He’s not breathing,” he finally croaks.

“What?” TJ actually yells it.

_Push hard, push fast._

That’s almost all Shane remembers from the brief CPR class he took, god, he has no idea how long ago it was, but it doesn’t fucking matter because Ryan is not breathing and if he doesn’t fix this, he’s afraid he’s going to stop too.

“Call someone, TJ,” he says, or really sorta begs.

He places one hand on top of the other in the center of Ryan’s chest and presses with his weight. He can’t believe this is happening. His brain is still three minutes ago, thinking this is all hilarious.

But it _is_ happening.

God, it’s happening. One, two, three, four, god he has no idea how many of these he’s supposed to do. He moves to Ryan’s face, hanging on his closed eyelashes, on the utter stillness of him—and on the fact that before this moment, he isn’t sure Ryan had ever stopped moving.

He covers Ryan’s mouth with his, completely—that’s what they said. A seal. And Jesus, Ryan’s mouth is fucking cold, but something in Shane is feeling a way that is all kinds of fucked up. Jesus Christ. Reality has swallowed him and dumped him into some Bermuda Triangle bullshit.

He breathes once, twice, into Ryan’s mouth so he feels his chest move up.

“Please, please, Ryan. Breath, man.” He tries compressions again. Nothing.

Fuck.

He’s losing it. “Ryan,” he begs before he presses his mouth to Ryan’s lips again. One, two, inflate.

And then, an eternity later—a cough. A wheeze of breath and Shane nearly collapses. He slides back to Ryan’s face, grabbing it as his eyelids start to flutter. Start to move. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Water spills down Ryan’s chin before the glaze lifts from his eyes and he finds Shane. He shudders, and Shane keeps the grip on his face, sliding his fingers into his hair to keep his head up. Ryan blinks, eyelids tangling in each other before they beat against his cheek.

“Ryan?”

Ryan chokes a little harder and sits up on his own, Shane, reluctantly—so fucking reluctantly—lowers his hands. “Holy fuck!” Ryan says. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, because he doesn’t really know what else to say. He’s not sure he’ll ever say anything else again.

“I couldn’t breath, dude. I literally felt… holy shit. I thought I was drowning. I had _water_ in my lungs.”

Shane wants to stand, wants to insist they fucking leave, but he doesn’t want to get that far away from Ryan right now. “We should go, like now. Fuck this place.”

Ryan runs a finger over his lower lip, and something twists way too deep inside Shane. And a part of him whispers, “ _oh_.”

“Did you, uh…” Ryan clears his throat. “Did you give me CPR, dude?”

“Well,” Shane says, “you weren’t breathing.” He’s going for deadpan, but he’s still out of breath and half out of his mind so it comes out wrong. “Are you okay?”

Ryan’s eyes go too wide for a second. He covers his face with his hands. Shane doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure Ryan is going to go into shock. Or maybe he’s projecting. “I’m, uh… shit, dude, you saved my life.”

“It’s fine,” Shane says. “TJ went to go call an ambulance or something, so we need to go… talk to them or whatever.”

He helps Ryan to his feet, first relieved at the warmth that’s returned, and then unnerved by how the warmth that bleeds into him. He clenches his teeth.

_What the fuck?_

Ryan stares at the broken door. “Did you…?”

“You weren’t breathing,” and this time it is deadpan.

“Okay, yeah, let’s get the hell out of here.” They’re halfway down the stairs to the exit when Ryan turns, star-bright, and says, “So you admit you were wrong? You admit ghosts are real?”

Shane wants to do no such thing. He wants to…

God, he wants to…

He grabs Ryan’s shirt, pulls them so they’re so close that their breath is getting tangled in the others throat. “Really, Ryan?” he huffs.

Ryan’s eyes bob down to his lips and back up. Shane’s heart bobs with them. “Yeah, really,” Ryan says. “If I’m going to nearly die for the cause…”

He’s being so fucking cavalier about this. Does he not realize that he wasn’t breathing a few minutes ago?

“Jesus, Ryan.”

They are staring at each other, jesus, they are really staring… and it feels, familiar, like rediscovering a favorite movie. But this time, they’re drifting, closer—so damn close, so Shane can see where pink lip fades into olive skin. He can see flecks of amber-brown amidst the tree bark in Ryan’s eyes.

_What the fuck?_

And he doesn’t know how it happens, or why it happens, or who causes it to happen, but their mouths brush. Soft and warm, until Ryan pushes up on his toes so his mouth digs harder into Shane and Shane parts Ryan’s lips with his tongue. His hand snaps to Ryan’s neck, feeling the curves all over again, this time thrumming with a heartbeat strong enough to strike flint inside him.

His hands fall to Ryan’s back, pulling, pulling until it isn’t just the curve of Ryan’s neck he’s feeling, and…

Sirens wail outside, and the door to the house swings open. “Shane?”

They leap apart like bolts of lightning. Shane swallows, shifts a little. Ryan pressed his hands together and slams them into his lips like he can hide whatever the fuck they were just doing.

“Ryan!” TJ says. “You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, but it comes out like a squeak, so he tries again, “yeah.” Slightly better.

“Well, I’m sure the ambulance will wanna check you out,” he says. “What happened?”

Ryan opens his mouth to explain, then looks at Shane a little helplessly. This story is definitely the kind of evidence Ryan always complains gets labeled as fake.

“This house has a hell of a breeze,” Shane finally says.

Ryan laughs, shakes his head, and says, “Shut up, Shane.”


End file.
